


Alternative Means

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Chains, Javert has BDSM fantasies but this isn’t BDSM, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Obedience, Orgasm Denial, Period-Typical Homophobia, Punishment, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-23 16:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: There are two schools of thought when it comes to punishment, but neither of them seem to work on Prisoner 24601.





	Alternative Means

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cybermanolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybermanolo/gifts).



Javert waited until night fell before permitting himself to even think about Jean Valjean.

There was plenty to occupy himself with in the evenings. Work was done and the prisoners were locked away. The dying sun blistered the sky and the sea in shades of gold and crimson. A few guards were hanging around the forecastle deck where a falling chain had left a gouging scar in the deck. A shirtless prisoner was repairing the damage while the guards watched him, alternately barking orders and exchanging lewd remarks. 

The man’s back was slick with sweat and twisted with age-old scars. Javert turned his gaze away, examining the splintered wood of the bulkhead. The heavy chain, slipped from the hand of the prisoner repairing the foremast, had clattered like a round of cannon. It had been all the distraction Jean le Cric had needed. A lucky accident or a planned escape?

Javert had worked the hulks for over a decade now, rising through the ranks with an impatience that had won him as many enemies as admirers. But while the world beyond the prison shifted, the certainties of Toulon never changed. 

Javert had learned his trade at the hands of Frederic, a man with a short temper and foul breath and a particular talent with the lash.

“There are two schools of thought, when it comes to punishment,” old Frederic had told Javert more than once. He had his own enemies — guards gossiped behind his back and prisoners despised him. But even the strongest of those prisoners grew quiet and watchful in his presence, even the rowdiest of men shrinking imperceptibly when he levelled his gaze in their direction. 

One morning a prisoner had waited until Frederic’s back was turned and spit on the floor as he passed. Frederic had turned without a moment’s thought and seized the prisoner by his collar, forcing the man to his knees. And then, stooping, he pressed harder on the back of the prisoner’s neck until his face was even lower, smeared with dirt and his own spittle.

Javert had been young in those days. Even years later, the memory of the prisoner’s soiled face stirred something hot and coiled within him.

What would Frederic make of this mess? Javert shook his head and resumed his walk, his eyes drifting to the horizon. Darkness overcame the day with so little warning. The brilliance of the sunset was ebbing away already, staining the golden certainty of the day until the sky was swollen purple and what little remaining light was fading fast. 

There were two reports to complete and more to review before the night was done. Javert took his meal alone in his quarters, passing a group of the more useful guards with a nod of apology when one beckoned him over with the promise of decent wine and information.

“Not tonight, boys. Too much work to do.”

Was that a knowing snicker nipping at his heels as he passed? He didn’t acknowledge it.

The men he trusted with responsibility weren’t so bad. Once he’d proven he could be trusted with responsibility, that he was determined to be more than the scum he came from, they’d accepted him easily enough. But the guards at Toulon were bone idle as a rule, little better than the men they watched over. And their minds were depraved. Filthy rumours passed between the convicts, travelled through the lower ranks of the guards and made their way back to the hulks, twisted sometimes into something even more foul.

Javert made it his business to learn the worst of the stories about himself. Discomforting as they were, they were a grim but comforting proof that the world was still in order. He knew what these men truly thought of him, no matter how high he climbed or how quickly they jumped at his command. And no matter what they thought, they jumped anyway.

He permitted two hours to pass before he tidied away his papers and called for a guard. 

“Evening,” The young man had more than a day’s worth of stubble, visible even across the room. Even in the candlelight. There was a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Anything I can get for you tonight?”

Javert sat back behind his desk, tilting his gaze upwards until the guard’s smile faltered. One hand moved to smooth a tiny portion of his irredeemably crumpled jacket. Javert bared his teeth.

“Sorry, sir. I was told you’d want me to fetch a prisoner for you.”

“Were you now.” Javert levelled his gaze at the guard, who wilted a little more under the scrutiny.

“I didn’t mean to presume, sir.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. Loiseau, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Bring in prisoner 24601 and don’t let him give you any trouble. Then smarten yourself up, for God’s sake.”

He waved a hand and the guard disappeared into the darkness behind the door.

Javert took a long breath and took a moment to gather the evidence in his memory: The falling chain that splintered the deck, sending prisoners scattering in one direction and guards in the other. The guard tower, temporarily unmanned. The abandoned pickaxe, which might have made a decent weapon for an escaping prisoner. He shook his head with a bitter chuckle. Prisoner 24601 never seemed to think his escape attempts all the way through.

The clatter of approaching chains brought him back to the present moment. The young guard had returned with Valjean. Reports said the prisoner had been wild when the guards had cornered him. He hadn’t made it far: Just a few miles out from. the hulks, huddled in the long weeds and caked with mud and grass. He’d roared as they pinned him down. It had taken four men to subdue him. Now, scrubbed and half-awake and temporarily subdued, he stood silently, his eyes dark and empty.

Javert’s own eyes were drawn to the guard, whose fist was loosely wrapped around the chain attached to Valjean’s collar. He was careless, pulling Valjean’s wrists up to lock them into place. Valjean moved obediently, his eyes darting between the two guards. When the boy took a step back, Javert moved to test the restraints, tightening the cuffs but leaving enough slack in the chain to allow Valjean to step backwards if Javert allowed it. He took hold of Valjean’s jaw, studying that carefully blank expression.

“There, now. How does that feel?”

Valjean grimaced, huffing a sound that was almost a laugh and twisted his face free. Javert permitted it, nodding at Loiseau over Valjean’s shoulder.

“You can go. Don’t forget, this one needs careful attention. You might as well be handling a wild animal.”

Valjean’s chest rose and fell, his head lowered now. Javert kept his eyes on the guard’s back until the door was closed and they were alone in the room. Valjean raised his eyes to Javert’s. Was that a hint of defiance in his gaze even now? 

Javert’s cudgel was resting on the desk. He picked it up, making a production of weighing it in his grasp, and allowed himself a slow smile.

“You know why you’re here.”

Valjean avoided his gaze. That was well enough. It wasn’t a question. Jean Valjean’s previous escape attempts were well documented in his file. And between failed escapes there were the other infractions, too minor to note, that Javert had personally witnessed. Laziness, bad temper, an evil look aimed at a particular guard no fewer than three times. Javert paced around Valjean in a slow circle. Yes, this was a man who knew why he was here. The line of his back and arms were already rigid in preparation for a blow.

It would not come yet. 

“There’s one thing I can’t figure out,” Javert said. Valjean’s shoulders shifted a little, muscles working beneath the worn red shirt. If Javert reached out, he could press a palm to that broad back, feel the sweat soak through rough cotton. The hulks were sweltering, even now that the sun was down, and Javert could feel the waves of heat that poured off Valjean’s back even without touching.

“The falling chain. How did you orchestrate it? Cochepaille was working on the foremast today. Was he your accomplice, or did you sabotage the poor bastard?”

Silence. Javert continued to circle the prisoner. Valjean’s eyes were turned upwards, following the chain from his wrists to the iron hook that fixed it in place. Javert tightened his grip on the cudgel, imagining driving it into the soft place between Valjean’s ribs and his hip. Wake him up a bit, perhaps. 

It was tempting to be reckless with the cudgel, but in fact there was an art to its application. A blow to the stomach would knock the wind out of a man, maybe startle some sense into him. Bring it down hard enough on the right bone and you’ll put a prisoner out of commission, perhaps for up to a month. And wouldn’t a strong man like Valjean just love that? A month to lie idle at the pleasure of the state, putting what little value he had to waste.

“Are you listening to me, prisoner? I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself.”

They were face to face now. Valjean’s gaze, undeniably defiant and levelled with Javert’s. And still he did not speak.

Javert kept his arm tense and poised to react in case Valjean tried something. The chains were strong enough to keep even the strongest brutes in place, but this was a creature of blind, brutal instinct. There was no telling what he might do.

Outside, the tide was turning. A wave struck the moored ship, tilting the room and sending the shadows toppling in wild directions. Javert nodded imperceptibly, taking half a step backwards to regain his equilibrium. He did not realise his hand was shaking until he raised the cudgel to Valjean’s throat.

“There are two schools of thought when it comes to punishment,” Javert recited. He drew the cudgel down from Valjean’s throat to his chest. Valjean winced a little as the solid wood dragged down his body. When Javert pulled it away entirely, he released a quick breath.

“Some people like to get the punishment over with quickly. Like training a dog: He pisses on the floor, you rub his nose in his mess. Offence, discipline. Action, reaction.” He slapped the cudgel in his palm to punctuate each sentence, the sound ringing out through the room. “Links the two together. Even the likes of you can understand how that works, can’t you?”

Now Valjean’s eyes were lowered. Now things were as they should be. Javert laughed out loud. 

“But as you’ve so helpfully demonstrated, it doesn’t always work.” Without warning, Javert raised the cudgel and brought it down on Valean’s side drawing a shocked groan. Valjean stumbled backwards, retreating as far as the chain would allow. Javert rested a hand on the desk, leaning back against it with satisfaction.

“Which brings us to the second method. The element of surprise. I once worked under a man who kept a list in the back of his mind. He knew of every infraction ever committed by every prisoner. Now this guard didn’t believe it was always appropriate to administer a punishment right away. I often saw him overlook infractions committed right under his nose.” 

Valjean was panting, bent double from the blow. But his eyes were still on Javert, wide and dark. The candlelight picked up a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Yes, Valjean was listening. Javert continued.

“But those prisoners weren’t getting away with anything. The ones who knew his methods — and believe me, they’d pick them up quick — lived in dread. Because once they’d committed an offence, it wasn’t a question of whether they’d be punished but when. And how.” 

Javert straightened, reaching up to grasp the chain attached to Valjean’s wrists. He gave it a sharp tug. Not hard enough to pull Valjean towards him, since a man as strong as Valjean could not be moved against his will, but firm enough to make the order clear.

The order was clear. Valjean stepped forward, his eyes darting from Javert’s face to the cudgel to the fist that closed around the chain. His breath came hot and sharp, close enough to touch Javert’s face, until Javert had to tilt his head up to meet Valjean’s eyes. It would be better to have Valjean kneel, he thought. But the thought of Valjean, standing so close already, sinking to his knees sent an urgent ripple through the pit of his stomach and he pushed the thought away. Instead he leaned back, keeping a firm hand on the chain, and looked Valjean up and down.

“Yes, you understand that well enough, don’t you?”

He reached out with the cudgel, resting it on Valjean’s hip a little lower than where it had landed before. Valjean was tense, perhaps in anticipation of another blow, and Javert watched with interest as he drew the heavy wood up and then inwards, past the injured area entirely. Valjean exhaled sharply. He made a brief, abortive gesture with his hands, but Javert yanked on the chain and he fell still. The room was silent apart from the lapping of waves against the ship and Valjean’s quick, shallow breaths.

Javert tightened his hand on the chain as he drew the cudgel across Valjean’s flat stomach and then up over his chest. That dirty smock hid planes of sleek muscle and broad shoulders. A body decorated with vicious lash marks, temporarily subdued and still at the law’s command. Javert’s hand faltered at the thought, the cudgel resting against Valjean’s breast, and he jerked his eyes up. Had Valjean caught him? No doubt Valjean had as filthy a mind as the men who guarded him, perhaps even worse. The thought of him observing some hint of desire in Javert — however imagined, however unfounded — sent a wave of cold horror through him.

In fact, Valjean’s eyes had fallen closed. Javert peered at him, intrigue and alarm mingling. At first, it seemed that Valjean might have fallen asleep, unlikely as that may be. But his breathing was not quite even and the tense lines of his forehead made it clear that he was far from relaxed. Javert dragged the cudgel higher, rasping against the rough cotton until he found the stiff peak of a nipple, and Valjean released a shuddering breath.

Javert’s eyes darted from the heavy wood to the red smock and up to Valjean’s face. This was unknown territory. He should yank his hand free — or, better, he should bring down the cudgel again. Harder this time. Hard enough to teach Valjean never to make such a sound in his presence and to remind himself never to provoke such a sound. He should find the guards and take a share of their wine. It had been hard enough to gain what little respect he’d earned in this place. To risk it now would be stupidity.

But the sound Valjean had made was unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Javert shifted the weight of his hand. It was hardly even a movement, barely enough to cause friction. But there was that answering exhalation. The barest hint, but it was enough.

“So you like that, do you?” Javert said.

Valjean’s eyes shot open, his whole body tensing. He moved to step backwards again but Javert tightened a hand on the chain that held his wrists and he stilled. Javert lowered his cudgel, heart pounding in his chest as Valjean’s shoulders relaxed and his expression softened into something confused and almost trusting.

There was something unnatural in that trust. To see this man of all men lower his guard — and not in deference to Javert’s authority but because of _this_? It was too much. He had pulled Valjean too close, and in drawing him into a trap he had built one for himself. He gripped the edge of the desk, pinned in place between the solid wood and the weight of Valjean’s body. But he could not let go of the chain, not if he wished to hold on to what little control he had.

Valjean’s eyes were soft and brown. Javert had never noticed before. He tightened his grip on the chain that held Valjean in place and searched inside himself for something certain — something more reliable than the curious sounds made by lost men. 

Javert couldn’t see his own smile, but he was certain it was ugly.

“You see? Not always so bad to do as you’re told, is it?”

Valjean’s cheeks flushed and he twisted his head away. He looked, Javert thought with a curious discomfort, as though he’d been slapped. There was something horribly intoxicating about the sight.

“There’s more, if you liked that,” he heard himself say, as though from miles away. The words tasted filthy and he spat them out. “If you can obey orders. Show me you can be good.”

The image had returned to him: Jean Valjean on his knees at Javert’s feet, his eyes downcast. Brought to heel not by force but through a willing submission and an earnest desire to obey. Was there a hint of that desire in Valjean after all? Javert would never have thought it possible until now, but here he felt as though he had grasped at a fraying thread within Valjean. It would be so simple to reach out and take hold of it and draw it out. Justify every foul word that anyone had ever whispered behind his back.

Valjean was watching him warily, his breath still quick and anxious. Javert allowed his knee to slide forward, nudging Valjean’s thighs aside. He kept his hands on the desk and his eyes on Valjean’s, tempted as he was to watch those thighs part for him. Valjean’s teeth closed around his cracked lower lip as Javert pressed forward, the flush that heated his throat deepening as Javert moved even closer and found what he already knew would be there.

Valjean was hard. Despite the chains, despite the dirty smock and the beatings. Even despite Javert’s low, triumphant laughter that echoed through the dark room.

“Well then. I suppose I have my answer, don’t I?”

Valjean made a low sound of utter misery, but his cock twitched when Javert applied more pressure. Hot breath rasped against Javert’s throat and he pressed forward again, hungry for more contact. Valjean’s hips jerked forward before he froze, breathing hard.

It would be so easy, Javert thought, to reach down and take hold of Valjean. To draw out the lesson,dispense pleasure and instruction until the words ran together like ink on blotted paper and there was nothing but sweat and friction and sound. Perhaps Valjean would prove malleable afterwards. Perhaps he would even be grateful. Again the image flared up, more urgent than before: Valjean would go to his knees and demonstrate his gratitude. 

It would only be natural. And if it destroyed Javert, at least it would prove that he’d been right all along. He exhaled a bitter laugh and withdrew his thigh. The sound Valjean made was almost a sob.

Javert looked him up and down, regaining his breath. Valjean’s eyes were open now, his lips parted. His legs were still nudged apart as Javert had left them, the bulge and spreading darkness between them obscenely clear.

Valjean was desperate. Javert could order him to press himself against that thigh again. To keep going until he lost what little control he had left. A man in that state might even do it. Might even ask for permission.

Instead, Javert let go of the chain.

“Step away from me,” he said, and watched with sickening pleasure as Valjean took two hesitant steps back. “Keep your eyes down.” And there, as if in a daze, Valjean lowered his head. He would go to his knees if Javert demanded it. He would open his mouth for Javert. It would only take a word but it would cost everything.

Another wave broke against the ship. The room lurched sideways and Valjean stumbled, regaining his balance by clutching the chain at his wrists. When he looked up, the spell was broken. His breathing was ragged and his eyes had the look of a trapped animal. Perhaps it was for the best. Javert straightened, stretching himself out to his full height, and considered Valjean. 

“That’s enough for today, I think.” He raised his cudgel again. Valjean followed it with his eyes, and Javert was almost tempted to reach forward again and coax out another reaction — unsure whether he wanted to see another flash of pain or more of that sweet, lost exhalation of almost-pleasure.

All the more reason to stop. No good ever came of indulging such impulses. He called for the guard, intensely aware of the weight of Valjean’s eyes on his back. Then he levelled his gaze at Valjean one last time.

“Remember what I said. About punishment.” Loiseau bent over Valjean’s wrists as he loosened the chains, but his eyes darted back to Javert. Had he been listening at the door? Keeping notes to relay back to the older guards? Valjean stunk of sweat and filth — but was that all a man could have picked up, standing so close? Javert straightened his back, sharpened his tone. “When the traditional methods fail, we must fall back on more unusual techniques.”

Valjean’s eyes widened at that but he held his tongue. And at a word from Javert, the guard was urging him back to his chainmates with a rough hand on his shoulder. Javert’s gaze dropped below Valjean’s waist and confirmed that, yes, he was still hard beneath the smock. Perhaps the brutes on the chain would make good use of that hard cock, that grim line of a mouth. No one expected better of them, after all.

Alone in the guard room, Javert leaned heavily against the desk. Night had fallen and  
no sound remained but the distant shuffling of chains and the beating of the waves. He tightened his grip on the edge of the desk, the edge of the wood biting into his palm, and he concentrated his mind on the sharp discomfort, ignoring the pulse between his own legs.

There were two schools of thought when it came to punishment, he reminded himself. His mind conjured up images of old Frederic: His scarred hand ready on the lash, his boots always neatly polished. What would he make of this third method that Javert had discovered? Nothing good, not a man trained in the old ways. Javert dismissed the thought with a bitter laugh.

It was too late to go back to the mess. The dregs of the wine would be long gone and what little information he might have picked up would be unintelligible by now. And no doubt Loiseau had returned with wide-eyed tales of what that son of a thief Javert got up to with prisoners behind locked doors. He pushed out a harsh breath, eyes fixed on the empty chains that still hung from the ceiling. Perhaps someday, with the proper encouragement, Valjean might earn the right to have those chains removed. Perhaps he might go to his knees willingly, in proper deference to the law.

And if he could be encouraged to do so, perhaps that would be punishment enough for Javert.


End file.
